#mr My Character Introduction Is Me Working Out Steaming And Sweating like bitch i see you

[todayisafridaynight]

mine was so real for describing daigo as having a good physique to the barker in that one rggo story LMAOO i think abt it every now and then like……….

no right like you didnt have to say that ..... if you just asked about the whereabouts of a 6'1 man with stubble, slicked-back hair, and a suit i think that woulda been enough honestly but no he may as well have started describing his perfect cheekbones and pretty eyelashes next

[ditch-witches]

Insufferable (i) - George MacKay x reader

(PART 2) (PART 3) (PART 4)

requested: yes/no (im so sorry this took so long holy scheisse, there are so many parts too)

Thank you so much to our first Instagram request! @/okay.l0z I had a lot of fun with this and had to channel Ryan and Hannah's angst to help me.

"Hi! I've been reading your fics and I love them so much bc there's hardly any around. I was wondering if you take insta requests and if so can you do one with George and the reader are like enemies to loves and they have really cute moments but then end up fighting all the time and then it escalates and they end up having sEx and then get together or something bc I will THRIVE IF YOU DO!" ... "Is it bad if I want it long ass?"

also I thought about this like,,, a lot,,,

pairing: George MacKay x reader

warnings: slow-burn introduction bAsIcalLy, I think there are swear words?

word count: 2,629

a/n: There are several things to be addressed...

accuracy to George's life is like 0/100 - scratch that, they have the same hair color

think of this as an AU because idk how else to explain it

it's a slow burn. if you need something that isn't, check the next imagine over and give it a reblog.

You put your chin in your hand and furrowed your brows as you listened to the actors in front of you. The bright stage lights kept you at a suffocatingly hot temperature, but at this point, you didn't mind. What your main concern for the scene was simple: your leading actor was George MacKay. You had spent constant, stressful hours trying to convince the director of the show that he was not the choice, yet when it came down to it, what he said went, and you had to deal with the cleaning up. Today was not like any other. An almost two-hour practice, script work, lighting, etc, were all thrown at the actors still attempting to memorize their lines.

But it was this part, in particular, that was becoming the most difficult. Maybe it was because you were the ghostwriter of the script and the director was trampling on all of your ideas and dreams with a man that you could one-hundred-percent deem an enemy. Your lead character, Charlie, had a soft side to him, despite having an overpowering sense of the dangers of the world and a body to match. George wasn't Charlie. George was one of the lost boys from Peter Pan and that's all you could see him as. He needed to grow up and be a pirate with only two motives: breaking the chains of the dystopian government regime keeping him away from his wife and captaining the deadly sea creature infested waters and getting back to his wife in one piece.

But George's motives seemed to be entirely set on getting into his co-star's pants.

His cocky attitude and facade of charm made you want to rip your hair out. Sure, he took his job seriously and had several esteemed colleagues of yours raving about him, but this role wasn't his. It didn't help that you knew him from primary school, of all places, and once he found out, that's all he could bring up around you.

George rolled his sleeves and dragged a hand through his thick, red hair, the veins in his arm becoming rather predominant as he did so. He was damn near playing footsie with the girl in front of him; their flirty gazes bouncing from each other to the crumpled scripts in their hands. You rolled your eyes, feeling as if your team could see the steam rolling off your shoulders. The director was doing nothing, merely smiling giddily at the two tearing the scene to shreds. "Stop," you took the reins, standing up from your position on stage and tossing your script down. You stepped over to the two and the director didn't move an inch. "What are you doing?" You nipped, crossing your arms and stepping between George and his co-star.

He towered over you by miles; you weren't sure if this made him feel the superiority he exuded, but you always made sure to square your shoulders when you talked to him. "What do you mean? We're practicing," he slyly stated, sending a wink over your head to the girl.

You took the script from his hands, flipping a few pages to the scene they were supposed to be working on. He smirked down at you, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he watched you scan the page. His script was well-loved and worn as if it had been in his back pocket repeatedly, flipped through, folded, torn and taped, highlighted and annotated. You tried not to blush at the notes he had taken as if he had actually cared about his role. Notes such as movements and relative emotions were noted as if they were suggestions. You wet your lips, feeling George's easy-going gaze on you the whole time. "... Charlie, we have to get out of here..." You began, your eyes meeting his deep blue ones.

His face fell into a stern expression, his arms crossing heavily with a furrowed brow. "We've only just got here. I'm shipping out tomorrow. There's no way the Republic-" His Scottish accent was surprisingly thick and consistent. He was settling into Charlie.

"I don't care anymore. I'm tired of sitting idly by and watching you throw yourself away for a debt your brother can't repay." You swore you saw an actual feeling of hurt flash behind his eyes.

He chewed the inside of his cheek. "That debt is just as much mine as it is his. You're asking me to uproot and leave him, you know? I can't leave him."

"You'll die. You'll end up like the rest of the mariners haunting their wives for the rest of eternity. You're a slave." George took a few steps to stand in front of you, he was close enough that you could smell his cologne now: a sweet mix of sandalwood with hints of lavender. He smelled like a summer day spent at a cabin in the middle of a meadow. You hated it, but you wanted to bury yourself in his chest and bask in his scent for the remainder of your days.

He rested a hand on your neck, angling your face towards him as he whispered, "Look at me..." You attempted to ignore the beating of your heart in your ears and the sweat that began to spread across your back. "I'm free. I'm choosing this debt because, without it, he would die. He's the last piece of my father I have left."

You reached for his hand, covering it with your own. "What about me, Charlie? I'm here now. I'm flesh and blood in front of you. What about our child?"

"He'll be here when I get back." He pushed away from you, turning his back on you and settling his hands on his hips. "I'm not changing my mind." He looked over his shoulder at you. "Eden, I have to do this." You closed the script with a raised eyebrow, hiding how impressed you were that he actually knew his lines. The emotion he was conveying was nothing like how he had previously let on. You walked towards him and he turned back around. You pressed the script back into his hands and gave him a small glare.

"Practice how you play. I'm done with wasting time," you said more to the group than just him. The rest of the cast members weren't as proficient in hiding their amusement back as you were. The last thing George needed was another inflate to his ego. You went back to your spot, grabbing your clipboard and flipping over a few pages. The group began to gather around you slightly. "I need Eden and Charlie in with wardrobe now, the rest of you keep practicing your lines. I'll want to hear dialogue from Dane and Jack tomorrow. Give me another forty or so minutes and we'll call it?" The director nodded from the first row of seats. The crowd dispersed but George swam against the current of thespians, approaching you again.

He gave you one of his charming smiles. Be professional, you thought. "I was just wondering how that sounded to you?"

You thought for a moment, drawing the clipboard to your chest. "Yeah, it was good. Your accent's a bit dodgy, but the emotion is good. Why don't we see that during actual rehearsals?" You tilted your head at him and he looked at his shoes slightly, tucking his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Was he pretending to be humble?

"I don't know. I guess I like you more as Eden," he jeered, causing you to roll your eyes and he smiled wider.

"You're insufferable," you muttered, walking past him.

He chuckled. "Don't worry, I'll grow on you."

You scoffed slightly. "Go get fitted for suspenders and leave me alone, MacKay."

The next few days were full of constant rehearsals both in costume and script memorization. You had to admit that for some reason this show had you wrapped in a bundle of tension and anxiety. George slowly tore away at your nerves, becoming his own mess of anger and frustration as he picked up more and more on the fact that you weren't going to take his shit. You were serious about this job and you were serious about this play. His humor had diminished as it had gotten closer and closer to opening night and you weren't surprised when he would snap back at you for making an adjustment to his tone or a note on the delivery of a line.

"Stop being such a bitch!" He groaned, tugging at his hair as you crossed your arms.

"Calm down, primadonna! All I'm saying is quit pacing! Charlie isn't pacing! Where in the script does it say he's pacing-"

"THAT'S RIDICULOUS. IT DOESN'T MATTER." He moved to stand in front of you, his teeth gritting slightly. This was what your discussion had grown into, one hissy fit flaring up the other.

"FUCK, YOU'RE RIGHT. I TOTALLY FORGOT YOU WERE THE ONE IN CHARGE, MR. MACKAY. SHOULD I JUST SUCK YOUR DICK RIGHT NOW SINCE WE'RE ALREADY ADDING IN UNNECESSARY ACTION," you would bite back causing him to glare up at the ceiling with his jaw clenching in a sarcastic smile. He wore your patience thinner than tulle. And you were hoping to be doing the same to him.

On the eve of opening night, a storm broke out over the city. You hadn't received word from your ride at all---a man you had been seeing on and off for a while, but still managed to keep him at enough distance that the two of you weren't official. You glared at your watch, deciding to say fuck it and just walk the five or so miles it was to your apartment. Your rain jacket was already soaked, your umbrella proving to be no help whatsoever. But you persevered knowing full-well that if your character, Eden, were in the situation, she wouldn't have batted an eye before dropping him and his lack of communication. As the water soaked into your boots and chilled you rather quickly, you bit your tongue, regretting not waiting for the bus. Cars past you at rushed paces, wanting to get home to their loved ones if the rain worsened---you figured.

Your heart began to pound as a car pulled up beside you, causing you to wrap your hand around the bottle of mace in your coat pocket. The window rolled down, but you kept walking. "Do you need a ride?" Hollered an almost too familiar voice.

You crossed your arms and continued to walk. "No!" You called back.

The car rolled forward and you heard the driver door open. George stepped out slightly, drawing his jacket up to fight against the biting wind. "Come on! Look at this weather!"

"I'm good! Go home, George!"

He tilted his head at you with a deadpan expression. "Don't make me throw you over my shoulder." You furrowed your brows and rolled your eyes, sliding into the passenger seat of his car and taking down your hood. George watched as you did this. He slipped off his jacket. "Here." He pulled his hoodie over his head. "Take your shirt off. You'll get hypothermia."

"Excuse me?" You nipped.

It was his turn to roll his eyes. "I won't look. You're soaked. Take my damn hoodie." You looked out the front window and then let out a huff. You peeled off your upper layer, no longer giving a fuck if George saw you in your bra. You looked over to him while he leaned his arm against his door, his cheek resting against his fist as he held his hoodie out to you. You pulled the garment over your head and couldn't help but snuggle into it. It was oversized and warm, smelling just like George. Your cold skin seemed to sigh against the soft material and you felt tears prickling at the corners of your eyes at how content you were. George put the car into drive after he had made sure you were taken care of. You slipped your hands into the long sleeves and fought not to dig your nose into the neckline to breathe him in. His scent was like kryptonite to you and you hated it. "Are you hungry?" He asked, looking at you briefly and flipping the heat more to your side. He smiled almost proudly to himself at the sight of you enjoying his hoodie and the safety of his car.

You quickly braided your hair, attempting to combat the wet feeling of it against your neck. "No, I'm fine thanks."

"Come on. My treat? I've been a dick to you all week."

"Fine..." You mumbled. He found a nook of a restaurant jabbed into a part of London you had yet to explore. The rain had finally let up to a drizzle as the two of you made your way inside the softly lit eatery. The two of you tucked into a booth and ordered almost instantly, you now realizing just how hungry you actually were. "What were you doing in that part of town so late?" You finally asked after they brought out a hot tea for him and topped off your coffee. His large hands cradled the steaming mug in front of him, his nose slightly red from the chilly weather outside.

He chuckled slightly. "I forgot my script in the theatre and---for some reason---couldn't stop thinking about it." You nodded hesitantly. "Why were you walking home?"

You shrugged nonchalantly. "Such beautiful weather we're having. Thought I would take an evening stroll," you joked, causing him to chuckle lightly. George's face seemed to glow slightly under the cozy lights of the restaurant, his hair slightly disheveled and damp from the rain. You now got a full sight of the t-shirt he was wearing that commemorated a football team from the graduating year ahead of yours.

There was a beat of silence between you two. "Why..." George tugged his bottom lip between his teeth, attempting to find the right words. You furrowed your brows. "Why do you hate me so much?" If you weren't looking at him, you would have sworn he was smiling behind his question.

"Seriously?"

He nodded. "Seriously."

"You dated my best friend, Sophie, and broke her heart," you answered bluntly.

George sent you a puzzled expression for half a second before grinning slightly. "Yeah, but I was ten."

"Yeah, but now she's twenty-one and we still talk about it," you quipped, taking a sip of your coffee.

He exhaled. "I was... I was ten..." He furrowed his brows. "She was pretty. Hasn't some other guy broken up with her since me?"

You shrugged again. "No, she has this mindset where if she starts getting the feeling that things aren't working, she cuts out."

"She's been dwelling over me for how many years?" He couldn't fight the grin threatening to creep across his face.

You bit the inside of your cheek in thought. "I guess that would be twelve years." He whistled. "We're good at keeping grudges."

"Well, if I ever run into her, I'll apologize." He added a lump of sugar to his tea. "Is that the only reason?"

You debated ripping him a new one, but the tiredness you felt reflected in his eyes. "It's the kick-off point. Why? Do you wanna be buddies now?" You joked, sticking your spoon in your mouth.

He rested his hand in his chin. "Nah," he pursed his lips in thought. You furrowed your eyebrows at his answer, letting a titter escape your lips. "You're too young for me." You laughed a bit harder.

"Age is just a number, baby," you hummed and he smirked at you, a sparkle in his eye.

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